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[skyemediam]

Today didn’t feel like progress.

Not at first.

I woke up already behind —

behind on ideas I wanted to chase,

behind on the energy I hoped I’d wake up with,

behind on the version of me I thought I needed to be today.

But somewhere between making coffee and deciding to sit back down for “just five minutes,”

something shifted.

I remembered that momentum isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it is a breath.

A footstep.

The decision to keep going gently instead of stopping completely.

So I honored the small wins. I replied to one message.

Added three sentences to a chapter. Stretched instead of pushing through pain.

Let myself laugh at something silly online and allowed that to count. I didn’t finish the race today. But I showed up for it. And if I’m learning anything lately, it’s this: Some days, the bravest thing you can do is not to outrun your limits, But walk beside them without shame.

Today wasn’t a surge forward. It was a quiet stand. A reminder that small wins still move the story.

And tonight, as I rest, I call that enough.

— Sheri

[skyemediam]

Learning to Let Slow Be Enough

Today moved slowly.

Not in a poetic, soft-focus way

But in the real, sometimes-frustrating, body-heavy way chronic illness loves to hand out like unwanted party favors.

I woke up tired.

Stayed tired.

Moved through the day like I was pushing against warm water.

And for a little while, I was angry about it.

Angry that my body couldn’t keep up with my ideas.

Angry that rest still feels like admitting defeat.

Angry that slowness always seems to show up when I have things I’m excited about.

But sometimes in the afternoon, somewhere between

“I should be doing more.”

and

“I need to lay down for a minute.”

I let myself breathe.

Just breathe.

And I remembered:

Slowness isn’t failure.

Slowness is data.

Slowness is a boundary my body sets so I don’t burn myself to ash.

So I did the only thing that felt right.

I worked a little. Rested a little.

Made a few small steps instead of the big ones I had planned.

And I decided that was enough.

Not forever.

Just for today.

Because healing, creativity, growth

None of them happens in a straight line.

Some days are fire.

Some days are foggy.

And most of the time, we’re learning how to walk between the two without losing ourselves.

Tonight, I’m choosing gentleness.

Tonight, I’m choosing to believe slow can still be sacred.

Tonight, I’m choosing to honor the version of me that showed up

even if she showed up quietly.

Sheri

[skyemediam]

Learning to Hold Space for the Messy Middle

I woke up today feeling like my life was a half-written sentence.

Not the beginning.

Not the ending.

Just the middle—the part where the story hasn’t revealed its purpose yet.

And honestly?

That used to terrify me.

I’ve always wanted clarity, direction, a sense of this is where we’re going. Chronic illness doesn’t give you that. Creativity doesn’t give you that. Healing definitely doesn’t give you that.

But today I tried something new:

I didn’t fight it.

I let myself exist in the messy middle.

I wrote a little.

Rested a little.

Cried a little.

Laughed at something ridiculous online.

Worked on a project I’ve been avoiding.

Forgot a task I meant to do.

Remembered I’m human.

And somewhere between the quiet moments and the chaotic ones, I realized something:

Middles are where everything changes.

Not in the opening lines.

Not in the big finale.

But here—in the uncertain, unpolished, unglamorous middle where you’re still becoming.

So today isn’t a triumph or a struggle.

It’s just a day.

A real one.

And maybe that’s enough.

— Sheri

#Day3 #DailyWriting #CreativeLife #MessyMiddle #Becoming #HealingJourney #ChronicIllnessLife #WriterLife #LivingWithChronicIllness #RestIsProductive #SlowLiving

[skyemediam]

I’ve learned that “beginning” is rarely a single moment.

It’s a rhythm — a pulse that comes and goes, sometimes soft, sometimes loud, sometimes barely noticeable.

Every time I pick up the pen, it’s a beginning.

Every time I rest, it’s a beginning.

Every time I forgive myself for not moving fast enough, it’s a beginning too.

The world teaches us to value momentum — the hustle, the checklist, the forward motion that never stops. But my life doesn’t move that way. My body doesn’t. My art doesn’t.

And I’ve made peace with that.

(Well, most days.)

Some mornings, I wake with ideas pouring through me like sunlight. Other days, I stare at the page and feel the weight of silence. Both are sacred. Both are part of the making.

I used to think consistency meant never faltering.

Now I think it means returning — again and again — to what matters.

Writing isn’t about speed.

It’s about truth.

It’s about the courage to meet yourself exactly where you are, even when that place is tender, uncertain, or quiet.

So if you’re here, starting again — in your art, your healing, your living — know this: beginnings don’t need to be loud. They just need to be real.

Start where you are.

Whisper if you have to.

The page will wait.

With steady hands and a slow heart,

Sheri

[skyemediam]

So This is Me

I’ve started this blog more times than I can count.

Typed. Deleted. Re-typed. Re-imagined. Sat with the blank space like it was a mirror.

Introductions are strange that way.

They ask us to summarize ourselves — a whole life, a thousand tiny turning points — in a few neat lines.

But I don’t exist in neat lines.

Maybe you don’t either.

So this is me, in the way that feels honest today:

I am a writer.

Not because I chose writing, but because writing chose me.

It has always been the thread I hold onto — the thing that steadies me when the world tilts, the thing that reminds me who I am when I feel lost inside my own skin.

I am also someone who lives with chronic illness.

Some days are soft. Some days are sharp.

And some days I am simply trying to be a body inside the world without apology.

It changes the way I create.

It changes the pace.

It teaches me to rest as part of the art — not as an interruption to it.

But it has never taken my voice.

If anything, it gave me a clearer one.

I am a mother, which means my heart walks around in the world wearing the faces of my children.

I am a student, because I believe in the kind of learning that grows us — not just in knowledge, but in compassion.

I am someone who has known loss, rebuilding, tenderness, sharp humor, loud laughter, quiet resilience.

I write stories about people who endure.

People who choose love when it would be easier to choose numbness.

People who run toward the fire because they believe something is worth saving.

People who refuse to stay silent when the world asks them to shrink.

And maybe, in some way, those characters are reflections.

Maybe they’re the places inside myself I’m still learning how to name.

This blog is where I’ll talk about writing — the messy, human, alive parts of it.

It’s where I’ll talk about living with chronic illness, without sugar-coating and without despair — just truth.

It’s where I’ll share the journey of building books and worlds and characters that hold something real.

I am not here to be perfect.

I am here to be present.

If you’re here too — whether you are a reader, a writer, a survivor, a maker, or someone simply looking for a corner of the world that feels gentle — then welcome.

Pour yourself something warm.

Pull up a chair.

Take a breath.

We’re just beginning.

So this is me.

And I’m glad you’re here.

So, This Is Me

Sheri Johnson is a writer, mother, and chronic-illness advocate who believes in the power of tender storytelling and quiet resilience. She writes character-driven fiction about endurance, identity, and the small, ordinary moments that change everything. Sheri is currently pursuing her BA in English at Sam Houston University while working on her next book.

With warmth and ink-stained fingers,

Sheri